


Blank Canvas

by plurality



Series: Function() [2]
Category: Transistor (Video Game)
Genre: Afterlife, Gen, Nonbinary Character, Post-Canon, Rebuilding, Social Anxiety, Spoilers, The Country is a lonely place, life goes on - Freeform, or what passes as life in the Country, until people show up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-02-13 17:59:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2159874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plurality/pseuds/plurality
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bailey Gliande wakes up in the Country, and she is alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When Bailey was still a student, her class had taken a trip through a park where the fields were crowded with colored wheat and flax and smelled like the inside of a bakery. She had hung back from the main tour group - no one noticed her slipping out - and had lingered by the largest patch, simply taking the scenery in. 

This place she wakes up in, it reminds her of that. The plants shine spun gold with the sun, and she sees endless plains of it, on and on and on.  The last thing she remembers - a banquet, except she was alone, and there had been the Administrator Kendrell, and a glowing sword and - _ah_. So that's what had happened. Nothing for it, she supposes, not with Kendrell and his group out there and herself in here. The Country, it seems like.

Except, Bailey never really thought about it before, and she wasn't sure whether she was supposed to be alone. Almost alone - as soon as she had stood, there was a peculiar feeling of air being sucked out around her that had passed almost as quickly as it had come, and in its wake, there was her owl, confused and shaking until she picked it up and soothed it like she would a frightened child.

"Come, it's alright," she says in her quiet voice, "Shh, I'm here."

And who else? Bailey thinks she can spy a dark shape on the horizon, breaking the clean divide between the clear blue sky and the rustling wheat and grass, a house. Sure that must be someone, someone who knows what happens now, what happens in the Country, now that she's stuck here - there was no going back, after all.

Nothing to do but to go towards it, so she does, owl settled into its usual place and feet unsteady. The house was something out of a history log, back when Bailey had done reports after reports of how people had lived, before Cloudbank became what it was - what it is. When she knocks there is no answer, and when she experimentally tries to open the heavy door, it swings open like it's welcoming her inside.

A finely furnished room greets her, lines and lines of bookcases with thick tomes - empty pages and all, when she plucks one out and flips through. Even a perch for her owl. This wasn't someone's home, it was hers - her own apartment, sans, well, everything that had made it Cloudbank.

And the Country becomes very desolate, in all its golden fields and pigment blue sky, its endless miles stretching further and further. Where is Cloudbank, with its chaotic changes, with its amassed history and precedents she could always turn to? It's lost to her, now. Lost as soon as Administrator Kendrell plunged the glowing sword into her chest.

Talons dig into her shoulder, and her owl flaps at the window. Bailey opens the window out of habit and her companion takes off, as he was back in Cloudbank, following routine. The sun had begun to set, painting the blue sky with yellows and reds, with no input from her, no voting screens or choices of color - it's odd, to say the least.

"What now?" she says to the imitation of her home, to the Country itself, if it was listening to its people's voices like Cloudbank had. Her voice echoes through the dark corners of the room, and there is no answer.

She's struck with the horrible thought that this is it, this is all that's ahead of her. And what of her owl, her closest and only companion? If he never came back - found life in the Country with open skies and open fields and no buildings or lights more favorable than with her - what then? No one here besides her. No archives to look to for advice. No Cloudbank. It was taken from her.

Her chest tightens, her breaths come fast and shuddering, and - Bailey stops. Grabs onto the windowsill, and ducks her head down, and her thoughts come screeching to a halt as she closes her eyes. _Panic later_ , she thinks, _you have all the time in the world. You'll figure something out. It's fine, he'll come back. He always does._

Bailey leaves the window open, and leaves out a bowl of water. Then, she heads to the imitation-bedroom and forces herself to sleep. Tomorrow, she'll take stock of what's here, and then, she'll continue on.


	2. Load()

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Big ideas, that's why!"

When she wakes up, Bailey wants to believe she's back in Cloudbank - that the invitation, the Country, everything was a dream. But it isn't, and there is no traffic noise drifting into her home, no snatches of conversation as she washes up. Her owl hasn't returned yet. Bailey tries to ignore the lump in her throat.

In an effort to stave off boredom, Bailey busies herself with the rows and rows of books her home is filled with. All of them, blank and empty, no matter how many she flips through. The encyclopedias, the references, even the maps, with all its add-ons, all wiped clean. The Country had wiped everything clean. Her life's work, gone just like that.

Frustration tears its way out of her throat and she slams down the last book. What good would it do her now? There had been no concrete records of the Country, no one returning from it. _Who would want to come back from the Country?_ She remembers her coworkers saying, and Bailey has to scoff, now.

"So, this is it." Her voice oddly quiet after the racket she had made moments before, and she feels the weight of forever press onto her shoulders.

Time passes by in a blur - what is the use of time when the days and nights blur together? But Bailey keeps track, using one of the emptied books as a record. Never hurts, she reasons. Someday, she'll have to look back and remind herself how she came here.

Her owl doesn't return, and the empty perch gnaws at her awareness every day. Even in Cloudbank, the bird was her only companion late into the nights. She misses him keenly.

So Bailey fills up the hours by recording all she remembers from the archives. The changing venues in Goldwalk, the Administration's decisions over the last months, the research she had done to organize Cloudbank's data chronologically - Bailey remembers them all. It flows from her mind to her pen, and she loses herself in the effort.

 

* * *

 

Then, after week of holing up in her study, there's a muffled pounding invading the monotonous quiet of her home. She dismisses it at first, her mind plays tricks and she doesn't want to dredge up some hope that would just end in disappointment. But after a short pause, the knocking continues, faster and more forceful than ever.

Stacks of paper and books shift as she carefully pushes herself out of her seat. Bailey's heart leaps when she sees her owl on his perch. As she goes to stroke the bird's feathers, the knocking continues.

"Who?" her owl hoots, pecking a little at her fingers, and a smile grows on her face at the familiar sound.

It's strange, remembering how her own voice sounds in the no longer empty room. "Who indeed."

The hallway to the door stretches on in her mind, only to snap back into perspective when she grasps the doorknob like an anchor. Someone was in the Country, someone was _here_.

"Ah, hello," says a voice that had broadcasted all over Cloudbank, "I was wondering, where exactly am I? You see, I just woke up a-ways back, and I saw a pair of houses. So, naturally, I went to the one that was closest to me."

Bailey blinks, and stops herself from shutting the door in the man's face. Too much, it's too much, after so long in silence.

The man seems flustered by her stunned silence, and he straightens his vest before looking at her again. "Apologies, that was incredibly rude of me," He says, "I'm Wave Tennegan, could you possibly help me get my bearings? Everything's a blur."

"Bailey Gliande," she manages. "I - yes. This is the - the Country, I believe."

"The _Country_?" Tennegan's eyes widen and he places a hand on the doorframe to steady himself. "But, I was just in Cloudbank, a few moments ago. There was this, this event for my show and - may I sit down?"

Sympathy courses through her, and it pushes her to shuffle aside. What do people do when they have a guest over? "I'll…make something to drink."

Now that Bailey thinks about it, when was the last time someone visited her, in Cloudbank? Her parents, perhaps, when she had first moved out. And after they passed on - could they be around here? - no one. She sets the water to boil and returns to the table where the broadcaster is muttering to himself.

"I woke here, too," Bailey says, in an effort to offer some comfort in solidarity.

Tennegan barks out a laugh. "I guess we're in the same boat, then. Do you remember anything before you woke up? Because I do, I'd like to get to the bottom of this whole mess."

She rifles through her pockets, pulling out a notepad and pushing it towards him.

_Invitation to celebration - no one else there_  
 _Administrator Kendrell_  
 _Flash of light, glowing sword_  
 _the Country_

The kettle whistles sharply as he flips through her notes, and when she returns with two cups of hot coffee, Tennegan is scribbling corrections and additions onto the page, twirling a pen as he thinks. He slides it over to her once he finishes.

"I added some of the things I remember. Thank you," he says, sipping at the drink. "Now, Administrator Kendrell, when I met with him at one of my meet-and-greets, he wasn't alone. He had himself a fancy group - the 'Camerata,' they call themselves." Tennegan lifts the pen with his pointer fingers on each end, staring intently at it.

"The Camerata?"

"I counted four of them, exactly," Tennegan continues, and Bailey can start to pick out when his voice shifts to its familiar broadcasting cadence, "Ms. Reisz, Sybil Reisz, of course, Mr. Royce Bracket, Asher Kendrell of the OVC, and our esteemed Administrator Grant Kendrell. Cornered me right as  I was packing up."

She suppresses a funny jolt of recognition at the mention of the quiet reporter - he had often dropped by the archives for 'personal research,' and had always kept to himself. First the Administrator, whom she had personally given research to, now him?

"Told me they could show me the 'truth of Cloudbank,' but I had to keep my mouth shut." He scoffs, "As if I could keep anything from my dear, dear listeners. Soon as I showed up, they got me."

"I'm sorry," Bailey says.

He waves a hand. "It's not your fault. You're a victim of whatever they're planning for Cloudbank, too."

Cloudbank. What will happen to the city that had been her - their - world?

"In any case, I'd always thought that I'd only reach the Country when my time came to retire," Tennegan says. "I didn't expect this, though. I'd always thought it would be more like Cloudbank, back when I was a man of the cloth, so to speak. But, I have to admit, it's very peaceful. Though, I do wonder where I am supposed to stay. It's getting late." He adds, looking out the window by the table.

 _How_ are people able to converse so easily? Bailey traces the bleached-white whorls of the table and stretches her mind out for Tennegan's earlier words.

"Before," she says, finally, "did you say a _pair_ of houses?"

Tennegan looks at her strangely. "Well, yes. There's your house, right here, and there's another one just across from here. I just went to the one that seemed to have someone living inside."

Bailey carefully sets down her mug and cranes her neck to peer out the window. Surely enough, there is another house, with the same look as her own, barely visible around the bend.

"The Country provides," she murmurs to herself, and stands up.

Tennegan catches on quickly enough, following her to the other building. And eventually taking the lead, exclaiming and claiming the replica of his own apartment in Cloudbank. When she makes to slip back to her own sanctuary, his voice ties her to the floor of the entryway.

"So, Bailey," he says, "what have you been doing, all this time alone?"

Her voice responds without her input. "Writing, mostly. Getting things together."

"Suppose you should take note of who comes here next. There will be one, I can assure you that. This Camerata's not going to stop at me and you." With those parting words, Tennegan sweeps through his own house, taking inventory and frowning at the emptied books and notepads.

Bailey takes her leave.

In the safety of her study, her owl a comforting weight on her shoulder, she opens up one of the books to its first blank page, and digs inside a drawer for a pen. _I am Bailey Gliande_ , she writes, and cannot bring herself to do anything more.

A score of black ink erases her previous sentence, and Bailey shifts focus.

_Wave Tennegan is - was - one of the most popular broadcasters in Cloudbank, known for his amicable talks and desire to clarify certain issues to the general populace._


	3. Bounce()

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Everyone deserves the best."

_~~I am Bailey Gliande -~~ _

_~~Cloudbank to me was~~ _

_~~I am an archivist in the city once known as Cloudbank, my name is~~ _

_~~I woke up in the Country when~~ _

_~~I am Bailey Gliande and I am~~ _

Bailey growls and scratches out yet another line. It worries her, words that had been so often her refuge, her tenuous connection to the city outside the archives, slipping just beyond her grasp. Bailey opens her hand to her owl, who nibbles at her fingers. He hoots comfortingly, and waddles back to its perch, wings half open and talons clicking against the desktop.

These past few days, it had been as Tennegan - _Wave, call me Wave_ , he had often said - predicted. Wave had found Shomar Shasberg lying behind his home, disoriented and confused at the sudden change of scenery.

 _Don't really know what happened_ , the escape artist had said, when she tentatively prodded for his testimony. _Was like, one moment I'm bathing in my own personal victory-bath, then - poof - I'm wondering why the night's so bright. There was this group of people, I think? Bit of a bummer. Hoped for a quick and clean getaway._

Tennegan was disappointed with the lack of answers, needless to say.

 _What's the point?_ She had asked. _We're still trapped here, there's nothing we can do._

 _Answers,_ was the clipped reply. _If anything I want to know why we were murdered. And, it's not good to linger here with nothing to do, we'll lose ourselves that way. This keeps me busy._

Then there's the Country's latest resident. The outspoken Niola Chein, Goldwalk advocate, according to Tennegan. She had introduced herself by knocking frantically at Bailey's door in the middle of the night, and refused to claim the house the Country had so mercifully provided. 

Instead, Niola had holed up in her guest bedroom. Bailey didn't even know she had such a room.

"Give her time," Tennegan had told her when she wouldn't give up any details the events leading up to her arrival. "The change's rough, remember? She trusted the Camerata's members - we all did."

In any case - no good would come out of pretending her guest didn't exist. Perhaps a hot drink would make the woman feel more welcome? Bailey pushes herself out of her chair and goes to make her one. It couldn't hurt, right?

The door to her room is ajar when Bailey comes up, two mugs in hand. She can hear the floorboards creak with each step she takes, but she stops by the door anyways. Seems like the right thing to do.

"Ms. Niola?" Her throat stretches dry with that. "I brought you some tea?"

The door cracks open wider. Perhaps it's just the wind from the open window.

The advocate sits by the ledge. And overlooking the other houses from this high up, Bailey can see Shasberg and Tennegan talking to each other, gesticulating wildly. Their exuberant voices roar up to the quiet room - a welcome change from before others started arriving.

Niola pats the seat next to her, and Bailey hesitates a bit before obliging her.

"Are you better? I mean…are you feeling alright?" In an effort to avoid looking at the other woman in the eyes, Bailey raises her mug and gulps down the scalding hot liquid all too quickly.

There's a laugh, and she dares to lift her watering eyes over the mug. Niola smiles at her, looking brighter than ever. "Much better than last night," she says. "Thank you so much, for putting up with me."

"It's, ah, fine. Better than being the only person here, I suppose."

Niola pats the space between them. "That must have been hard," she says, "What did you do, all that time?"

It's a pity her tea's all gone. Bailey fiddles with the ends of her sleeve - they're looking more than a bit worn, aren't they? - before looking at her again. "Remembered Cloudbank, for all it's worth. Tried to make sense of everything - writing it down and such. What's happened in Cloudbank, when you were still there?"

Niola winces - had she brought up bad memories? - but puts on a cheery smile. "People miss Mr. Tennegan's shows, I've heard. They wish him a happy vacation," she says, and her smile takes on a rueful twist. "Goldwalk's had a poll: a new metro or a Channel. Th-the Channel won. A lot of people, though, well, they weren't too happy. With me."

That's a surprise. Usually poll results were revealed, the city moved on - no real complaints other than the normal grumble of discontent, according to the reports she had archived. "You had a hand in it, then?"

All she gets is a bitter laugh. "I did. I called for it - thought that it would make Goldwalk better, encourage people to - I don't know. After that, I wanted some help and look where it got me."

"I'm sorry." And Bailey is, she really is. But, there were reasons why she vastly preferred the quiet archives and her owl for company, so she can't help but feel validated.

"But I don't want to even think about _them_ anymore." Niola nearly slams down her now-empty mug. "What are we all going to do now? We're trapped here."

"I don't know. I'm sorry." The apologies drop out of her mouth like platitudes, and Bailey peeks out the window again. Tennegan and Shasberg were no longer in sight - perhaps they were trying to distract themselves from their collective situation? She should try to do the same.

But how? All she cares about are records and history, and -

"Perhaps," she tries, "you can tell me about yourself? What you did for Cloudbank? I can record who comes here, help keep Cloudbank alive, in a way."

Niola's eyes settle on her, and Bailey forces herself not to cringe away. "That sounds lovely, Bailey."

Books and pens are always around, in her home. As Niola begins talking, halting and careful in the way of unearthing long-forgotten events, Bailey writes. And if she doesn't speak a word of moving out from her guest bedroom, well, Bailey doesn't comment on it.

_One can say that Niola Chein's first and only love is Cloudbank's Goldwalk District. From the talented street artists to the most hardworking of people, they all had a place in the district. And all of them strived to better their beloved community. But none had so fully devoted themselves to the place and its people as Ms. Chein had._


	4. Switch()

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sky looks blue because we want it to."

With each passing day, Bailey tallies another notch on her wall. It's become something of a habit, staring at the rows and rows of lines, counting them and recounting them just before bed. Layering each new day into her skin. It seeps into her thoughts, her bones.

The Country is still, and as she busies herself with various notes and observations, written for posterity's sake, and to keep herself sane, Bailey can see the toll of being taken out of time, without answers, for what seems to be forever.

If, sometimes, Tennegan cuts off what he was saying to stare out into the fields, Bailey doesn't comment. If Shasberg disappears for days and hours, only to reappear just when they begin to worry, she keeps her thoughts to herself. And if Niola can barely muster herself to settle into the uniformly small home the Country had provided for all of them, she turns a blind eye.

Impromptu meetings end in indecision and frustration more often than not.

The good days - days when she wakes up and feels that perhaps today would be different, when they decide to clear out a central area between their houses, when Shasberg remains in sight practicing his tricks, and Chein sleeps in her own bed, and Tennegan waxes poetic on his former days as a vicar - come just when they edge toward stagnation. But not enough.

The Country is still. They are still.

But Farrah Yon-Dale arrives with storm clouds in the distance, dark and low against the blue sky - a far cry from the normalcy they had just gotten used to. As usual, she appears in the fields by the back of Bailey's house, disoriented and dazed. Niola had just gotten their attentions - it was her turn to take watch, after all - when the sky-painter sits up, rubbing at her head, her eyes.

The first words out of her mouth once they help her to her feet and explain who they are, where they are, aren't demands of proof, stunned silence, or panic. It's a quiet, murmur that would have missed if they hadn't been paying careful attention to the Country's newest resident.

"The sky's so clear," Farrah says, "I knew it was big, but without all the buildings and all the lights it feels bigger, too. I must speak with the designer and the board responsible for it! Where are they?"

Shasberg gives her his trademark smile. "None here, miss. The sky's been making its own decisions on how it wants to look ever since we came here, right, Ms. Gliande?"

"I - ah  - yes. Yes." Bailey tears her attention away from the sky - now that she knows that she isn't alone, it doesn't seem as suffocating. It actually looks…nice. Like a painting she's seen in galleries and archived pictures.

Farrah's eyes are awed, and she looks around with the curiosity all of them had foregone with their own arrival. Niola offers to show her to the little community just beyond Bailey's home, and soon, only Bailey and Tennegan are left behind.

"That was, ah, different?" She says, simply to fill in the sudden emptiness in the wake of Farrah's glee.

Tennegan laughs. Without the hum of the broadcasting signals, it’s far too human to ignore. “Different, certainly. Dear Farrah, I had the pleasure of meeting her, once – she’s the same free spirit she was in Cloudbank. The city'll be a darker place without her.”

 

* * *

 

Things move quickly after that – as the clouds come closer with each passing day, Bailey finds at least one person at her door, and they talk easily, reminiscing about Cloudbank and remembering even the earliest memories.

“I didn't know I was ever like that,” Shasberg says, after recounting how he had brought home a squirming something from a pet store that had closed the day after. “Didn't ask for permission or anything, I just saw it, liked it, and got it. My Mom had to let me keep it – there was a policy about abandoning pets, brand new, I think.”

Bailey knew. She had drawn up files and numerous statistics when the Administration had wanted to add a corollary to the policy. And when she tells him this – it was only fair, with the others telling them their lives – he laughs self-consciously.

“That’s right, you worked in the archives. ‘Course you’re familiar with these things.”

“I am – was, I mean.”

The performance artist looks at her kindly, and Bailey cannot bear the piercing quality of his gaze. “Cloudbank’ll still be running just fine without us, you know,” Shasberg says. “It’s not like she’s ever been the brooding type. Things change and the city moves on. It’s how things go.”

Bailey’s hand tightens on her pen, and the same knot forms in her throat.

“I mean, I kinda meant for my last trick to be the peak of my career. It’s my job as an entertainer to read the moods and shifts of the city, right? So I saw that my time was beginning to end, and Cloudbank’ll move on to the next hotshot.”

She must have made a noise somewhere in the middle of his discourse – Shasberg looks at her with what? Pity? Fondness for her, stuck in the past and ever looking back? And he looks away, out to the window, where the sky’s clouds were amassing in closer and thicker.

“Looks like rain’s ‘bout to start,” he says, and bounces up out of the chair. “Let’s have another session when the storm ends.”

She blinks, a little thrown off-course by his shifting gears. “Y-yes. Of course,” Bailey says, “I’m always available, these days.”

And when she’s putting away the books and loose papers in drawers and shelves, just for something to do, the storm breaks open the sky.

Her owl tucks his head into his wing, and hoots – no night-flight for him, today, not when everything goes dark and when the rain and winds hammer down on the roof. The view from her window becomes dark, and the only light that flashes by are the thunderclap-loud lightning that she can see strike the fields past Niola Chien's house.

Her window rattles from the force of the storm, and she hurriedly moves to latch it closed.

Usually, on scheduled cleansing rains, on the rare occasions the public majority were in the mood for one, Bailey would sit down with a book and a hot cup of tea. That was out of the question here, in the structure that she fears would shake apart at the seams if she took her mind off of the squall. Even her door seems about to break, from the racket it’s making.

“-ley! Bailey!”

It’s not the storm. Bailey opens the door to find Farrah, with her hair windswept and plastered down, and completely delighted.

“Bailey,” She greets - voice rasping, as if she had been speaking for a long time - and takes Bailey’s hands into her own wet ones. “You should come see it first-hand – there hasn't been a storm like this in Cloudbank for decades, before I was born, right? Come on!”

She loses her grip on her body, and watches almost as a spectator as Farrah nearly drags her outside, into the storm. By the time the raindrops on her face jolt her back into being, it’s far too late to turn back – already she’s soaking wet, and the winds batter her as they rush past, wailing and moaning. She has to return Farrah’s grip to keep herself steady and focused.

“Look up there,” Farrah yells over the sound of the Country’s rage –it’s sadness? “The sky, isn't it lovely?”

The rolling clouds barrel through the infinite sky, black and green and gray; the wind carves swirls and creases into the mass, and the chilled raindrops make her flinch and gasp as they roll down her hair, onto her back.

When Bailey finds enough resolve in her to gently pull Farrah away from the dying storm, they both drip buckets onto the floor, and when Farrah lets out an exhilarated laugh, sharp and loud against the sudden quiet of the house, she finds herself joining in.

 

* * *

 

_Farrah Yon-Dale has always loved the sky, ever since she could remember._

"Oh, what's this?" Farrah Yon-Dale asks, bundled in a cocoon of towels and cradling a hot mug of tea. She’s peering at the books that were slowly but surely being filled in. "The others did tell me about your project – oh, there’s Niola’s book – and I see one for everyone here. Where’s yours?”

Bailey, similarly draped and with a hot mug, sets down her pen, careful not to let stray water droplets fall onto the page, and says, "Haven't found the words yet, I suppose."

Farrah makes a little sound of understanding, and starts singing a song under her breath as she peruses the bookshelves. The lyrics after the chorus evade her, evidently, and she begins humming instead.

"Aren't you angry?" Bailey asks, after a while.

Farrah pauses in her humming to peer up at Bailey. "Angry?'

"About the Camerata, getting stuck here, I mean."

"Oh." Farrah hums quietly for a moment, a little cheerful tune. "Well, I suppose it's just - it's just really tiring, being angry. Wave says the Country is forever, so it'll only drag me down. Before I came out to get you, I just screamed, back in that storm. Everything washes away, even the ugly things, in the rain. I wish it had rained more, in Cloudbank.”


	5. Cull()

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What's life without a little risk?"

Bailey wakes up to a quiet morning – no raindrops pattering on the rooftops, no wind tapping at her windows, and no crashes of thunder in the distance. She lifts her head from her desk, groaning as her bones and muscles creak their displeasure, and the skin on her cheek sticks to the wood for a slight moment, and pushes herself upright.

Light streams in – illuminating Farrah, curled up on Bailey’s couch and fast asleep under the many towels and blankets she had claimed in the long hours of the night before. Books lie all about her, spread out in the way pictures would be. Bailey traces the bindings of one, and lets her be – rest would do her good, after the excitement of the storm.

She strokes her owl’s feathers, the bird fast asleep on his perch, and rummages around the cupboards. Ever since Bailey had found small packets of tea and coffee in a drawer, after the first day of her arrival, the Country’s whims dictated what appears in the pantry. One day it had been nothing but dehydrated noodles and pasta she had to manually boil, and on another day, there was only nuts and flour.

Today is a fruit day. Bailey claims an apple and heads to her door, opening it to survey the aftermath of the storm. The air is soft and warm, in the way air is in the wake of an embrace, and the sky is so very clear without a cloud in sight.

There is a new building breaking up the clean divide between field and sky, a large barn, painted bright, almost vulgar, red. Tennegan and Shasberg are already by it, and Bailey can see Niola peeking out of her window.

Her first step off begins  with the wet ground sucking her shoes in – the mud from the storm, it leeches at every move she makes, and she stops just before the grass and growth ease away into pure mud.

“Hello, Bailey,” Tennegan says, “Come to see the newest addition? Quite different from the normal sights, nowadays, isn’t it?”

“There’s someone new?”

“Olmarq, from the Highrise Hammers,” Shasberg says, tugging at his mud-soaked boots, “found him lying by the barn, all muddy and wet – no wonder he’s a little unwell.”

A chill runs up her spine – Farrah’s arrival was only the day before. Were the intervals growing shorter?

“Took him to his little place, right next to mine – it’s the only one that’s dry.”

Tennegan jams his hands into his pockets. “He should be feeling a little better with some good, old-fashioned rest. Pity about him being here, though, he’s a good kid.”  
  
Pity about any of them being here. Bailey lets the topic drop, and heads inside, Tennegan and Shasberg spreading out to better cover the large building.  
  
The inside of the barn is considerably drier than the muddy mess that is the outside. The wooden planks are dusted in fine grains, sticking to the bottoms of her shoes, still damp. There's a loft and a second level cutaway below the arching rafters - not unlike balconies in an amphitheater.  
  
But there are also materials piled by the walls, as if someone had wanted to keep the center area clear of everything except a couple of smooth benches: bales of hay and long planks of wood, slightly rusted barrels of scrap metal and iron beams, and a corner workbench complete with tools and gear.  
  
The back of the wall has a writing board covered by a rough tarp, sawdust billowing all around Bailey as she sweeps the covering away. She touches the cool surface with a thoughtful frown.  
  
"The Country provides," she says, realizing that she's in the middle and feels a need to flee, heat flushing straight to her head, and down the rest of her body.  
  
"I'll tell Niola," she says, voice sounding weak even to her ears, and leaves without any fuss.

In the end, it’s Niola who comes to her, nervously lingering by the doorway – always open, now that they’ve all gotten to know each other quite well.

“You’ve been to the new barn,” she says, in lieu of a greeting, arms crossed. “But you haven’t greeted Olmarq yet, haven’t you?”

Bailey clutches a wayward blanket – Farrah had taken her leave some time ago – to her chest. Words come slowly, vowels dropping out of her dry mouth. “No.”

“You should. Introduce yourself. He’ll certainly be a different sort of character than us. All the reason to get to know the boy.”

“I – “ No excuses this time, no convenient distraction – Niola’s words ring true, but for now, all Bailey wants to do is to give herself something to do. Alone. “I’ll talk to him,” she says, and takes half a step back, warding off Niola’s following words, “but later. I just want to – I don’t know. I want to be alone at the moment. If you understand; if that’s okay.”

Shoulders drop, and Niola uncrosses her arms. “That’s absolutely fine. I was worried – you came out so quickly, and I wanted to make sure you were fine.”

“I’m fine,” Bailey says, almost in a whisper. _Could you leave?_

It must have shown on her face. “I’ll see you later, Bailey,” Niola says, “don’t forget to drop by Olmarq’s.”

When the door swings shut, Bailey thinks about locking it – at least for the day. Then she wants to slap herself. Here she is, missing the days where it was only her and her owl and the Country. Had she forgotten how disorienting and terrifying it had been?

But – she has been spending an inordinate amount of time with the others, letting them walk in and talk and such. A little time alone isn’t so uncalled for. She shouldn’t feel guilty. She shouldn’t.

Her owl hoots, dropping from a bookcase to her without a sound, and Bailey’s never been more grateful to have him here, with his familiar weight by her head, on her shoulder.

 

* * *

 

She visits Olmarq with a small pot of soup Farrah had whipped up for their new arrival. Somehow, all the strewn foodstuffs in the pantry made sense to the sky-painter. Bailey had opened it in curiosity when Farrah dropped by – _if you’re was going to see Olmarq, you could bring over some soup to help him feel a little better, and isn’t it lucky? I remembered how to make my favorite after-rain meal_ – and had to chuckle at the cheery carrots cut into shapes of little boats floating on top of the thick broth.

“Miss Bailey,” the young man says, opening the door. “I – Miss Chein told me you would be coming? H –here, let me get that for you – thank you.”

Bailey lets him take it and carefully place the pot on the nearest countertop. “It’s from Farrah,” she says, “She wishes you the best, recovering.”

“Waking up in the middle of a storm – not the best time of my life, that’s for sure.” A chuckle that sounds more forced than anything, and the poor boy looks down at the pot, opening and closing his hands with an uncomfortably familiar look.

She steps inside, looking around – sports paraphernalia conspicuously absent save a little place on a shelf. “It’s hard,” she says, not commenting on it, nor the look on his face.

“Mr. Tennegan says that you were all killed by the Camerata, too.”

“Yes.”

The punch to the wall isn’t so surprising to her – but the image of broken walls and bleeding knuckles is. Bailey steps forward and gingerly places a hand on his shoulder, and guides him to the living room. The silence between them is not an uncomfortable one, as she makes do with scraps of cloth to bind his hand. He’s still breathing hard.

“I can’t say it’ll get better,” she says, eventually. “It certainly hasn’t, for me. All I can do with myself is to keep myself busy.”

No answer, but there’s a grunt of appreciation when she ties the final knot. Olmarq tests his hands by curling and uncurling them, and she goes to heat pour him the soup Farrah had made.

“I’m not much of a talker,” he says, after he gulps down a bowl of it. “I’m sorry if the others told you otherwise, Miss Bailey.”

“That’s fine. I’ll take what you offer me.”

A long pause, and Olmarq looks quite bashful, once the furious anger drains with each spoonful. The tips of his ears darken – from the attention he’s getting this past day? “Okay,” he says, quiet in his own way, and ducks his head to better finish off the last of Farrah's soup.


	6. Purge()

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Pursuit of beauty"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay in the chapter update! Uni's been swell, but time consuming. But I'm back on track again, so!

After a moment of deliberation, the others designate the barn for their gathering place for meetings and other gatherings. Pretty soon, everyone’s using it more often than not.

Farrah’s found some paint supplies in a little room on the second floor – and with Shasberg’s help setting up some canvases, she starts painting right then and there. By the time Bailey’s dragged there to work and record what’s going on in there, the former sky-painter’s painted a panoramic view of the Country’s sky – morning, noon, and night – onto the wall and a multitude of smaller paintings, little more than dabs of color and lines, of them. Bailey can see Shasberg, his form blocked out in purple, Olmarq, dear, bashful Olmarq, in a rusty orange-red, and even herself, in a dark blue.

Shasberg’s coat hangs off of the second floor’s railings above her – he must be working on some sort of contraption. He’s been keeping it a secret so far, but knowing the entertainer, it would certainly be different. Perhaps a glider like he’d once told her about? _Flying’s the best feeling in the world_ , he’d said, _nothing’s holding you up except this thin piece of cloth and hope_. She’d doubt she’d be the type to enjoy it, but he had seemed so wistful that she simply wrote it down.

“Hey, Bailey,” Tennegan says, breaking off from his conversation with Niola, waving to her before returning.

She nods, not that he’d see it, and moves closer to the back wall. And there’s Olmarq, sitting on one of the benches and carving out a little figure from a piece of wood. With a little jolt, Bailey realizes that all of them, the ones in the little makeshift community of theirs – they’ve all become so sick of the normalcy of the Country that they’ll revel in anything that’s new. Like this barn.

“Hello, Miss Bailey,” Olmarq says, when she claims the bench opposite of him.

“Hello, Olmarq.”

And that’s all they say, really. There’s no need for further pleasantries. She opens the book she’d carried with her, and just soaks in the quiet camaraderie. The tap-tap-tap of Shasberg’s hammer and Farrah’s offbeat humming and the quiet murmurings between Tennegan and Niola.

A loud, echoing thump stops all of that. Their heads look up, at the door, and Farrah – the closest – hurriedly steps towards it. A new arrival. It has to be. Who else would be here with them?

She opens the door and – a slumped, shivering man tumbles to the ground, harsh breaths and gasps filling the still air. Bailey doesn’t recognize this man, with his two-toned hair and sunken eyes, but Farrah does, judging by her sharp intake of breath, her hands half covering her mouth.

“Oh – Max –“ The sky painter says, and bends down to check on his unconscious form. Even for a new arrival, this Max is weak, curled in on himself – Bailey feels the place where the Camerata’s sword had pierced her stomach ache.

“Maximilias Darzi?” Shasberg pipes up, on his tip-toes to peer above them. “The fashion guy?”

The so-called “Cloudbank Clothier.” Yes. Bailey remembers now, remembers archiving quite a few articles on the man’s shows, while partnered with – well. Sybil Reisz, one of the Camerata. To think that she’d let them get to someone she works closely with – what does it mean for the others around her? “In any case,” Bailey surprises herself by saying, “we should take him to his home – a bed’s better than the barn floor, right?”

Olmarq makes his way to the front, sidestepping her (“Sorry, Miss Gliande”) and picks Darzi up with the care of a glassblower picking up his new creation, and leads the way to the new building. Even though she’s the one who suggested it, Bailey falls into step with Niola, lagging a little behind.

Without prompting, Niola wrings her shawl and blurts out, “I knew him – Max, I mean. Who didn’t know Max, in Goldwalk? He helped put on a charity ball, once.”

“Oh?” Bailey says, almost mindlessly, an opening to continue.

“He…had his problems, but he meant well. And he had a friend, Lillian,” here Niola pauses, biting her lip before continuing. “I just – hate that we’re powerless here, what can we do but wait for a new person to be what, killed?”

“It’s bad, yes.”

“It’s horrible and I hate it and – “ Here Niola cuts herself off, dropping the wrinkled cloth and turning away from Bailey. “Forget what I said, alright?”

There’s a twist to the woman’s mouth that Bailey is intimately familiar with. Her shoulders tucked in, as if she’s on the defensive – not at all like the open face she’d worn during Goldwalk’s many events. Open with her heart as well as her words. This is not that Niola Chein. It weighs on Bailey’s mind – something seeped in faint regret. But here they are, stopping right outside of Mr. Darzi’s new home as Olmarq sets him down inside.

“So, uh,” Olmarq says quietly, “do we watch Mr. Darzi or something?”

“I’ll do it,” Farrah says, grounded and flightless and steely voiced, “I’ll holler if he wakes up, but I want to be the one to keep an eye on him.”

Tennegan claps her on the shoulder as he walks past, and Niola waits until everyone’s left before taking Bailey and going up to the skypainter. She reaches out for her hand, but it’s snatched away, close to her chest as Farrah looks down.

“Don’t ask me why, okay?” She says, before Niola can say anything. “I can do this myself. I want to do this myself.”

With that, she turns and heads inside.

When Farrah comes out to tell them that Darzi's awake, he’s pale and gaunt and he snaps at her when she tries a perfunctory greeting. She keeps her distance. So does everyone else, in fact – even Tennegan’s disarming charm is meet with nothing more than monosyllabic words and scathing eyes.

Farrah, it seems, is spared from this treatment. Farrah, and Shasberg.

He shrugs when they ask him, fixing his cap and pulling at his suspenders with his thumbs. “It’s not my place to say, really,” he says. “Farrah can explain it better, but – we have an understanding, alright? Just leave him alone.”

Bailey complies. Watches as the lights in the Darzi house – he’d yelled at them when Tennegan accidentally called it his home – stayed on well into the night, even after her owl returned from his flights into the deep nights. Life went on around him as if he’d never came.

Farrah visits her, now and again, vaguely waving off her mild concerns and just working on her sketches while Bailey reads. But one day she wants to talk, shaking her head at the questioning glance Bailey shoots towards her record books.

“Cloudbank’s wonderful for artists,” Farrah starts, as Bailey sits beside her on the sofa, neither of them facing each other. “So many opportunities, so many venues. And the people love it. They love us.”

“They do.” Bailey remembers tearing her eyes away from the bright screens, rubbing at them to ease the growing headache and going to the rooftop. Farrah Yon-Dale’s hand seen even in the night, with the spilled stars and colors etched into the sky, from her mixtures and her planning.

The woman wraps her arms around her legs like she was a little girl again. “It’s great, great fun when you’re small-time. You can do whatever you want, whatever the city sings to you. But when you become a star. Well.” Farrah breathes heavily, leaning her head on her arms. “It’s different. You can’t just do what you want, you have the people to think about, the votes, the regulations. But we do it anyway, because it gives us a greater spread – for me it was a full sky, not just some patch of cloud here and there. Shomar got himself a bigger audience. And for Mister Darzi, he got his resources.”

Bailey doesn’t say anything, just lets her sigh again, and does not flinch back when she leans into her, resting her shoulder against Bailey’s.

“The pressure gets to you,” she continues, soft and serious and where was the girl who laughed during the storm that she herself heralded? “Bigger, and better, and always as fast as possible. Mister Darzi couldn’t keep up, he says. And now he’s here, without them, and without the Cloudbank he knows. It’s scary, realizing that you can create for yourself, for the first time in so long.”

“That’s why he’s –“

“Yeah. Like a little bird I had. Kept it in a cage for so long, when I felt sorry for it and tried to set it free, it didn't fly away."

She doesn’t move, and Bailey doesn’t either – and when she takes her leave, Farrah asks her to dance in the rain with her when it comes.

 _I don’t dance_ , she answers, and Farrah laughs as she leaves.

* * *

The next day, when Darzi collapses in front of his house, Olmarq has to manhandle him inside and stays with him to make sure he rests and gives a damn about himself, at least for a while.

“Lotta dresses and suits in there, Miss Gliande,” he says. “Says its to help him remember, but it’s just very nice clothes to me.”

Bailey tallies off another month on the wall next to her bed.


	7. Ping()

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I believe the future can be parsed."

It’s been raining more and more, these past few days. The sky rolling and spitting lightning and screaming thunder and turbulent grey, weeping an endless grief. Even Farrah comes inside after a while without being prompted, strained and nervous.

The muddy aftermath of the latest rainstorm in the Country finds them crowding the waterlogged man that’d stumbled inside, sputtering and coughing. Nearly all of them – Darzi’s still cooped up in his house, and Tennegan’s gone to get him, gingerly stepping out into the grass. But here she is, carefully steadying him as Shasberg and Olmarq help him to an upturned crate.

Bailey recognizes him. Who wouldn’t? The Inspector Jallaford, decorated and celebrated as one of the most efficient members of the Precinct. His hat’s clutched in limp fingers, and it falls to the floor with a soft _whump_ as he sits heavily and sighs.

“Inspector,” Niola says, and falters.

Jallaford turns his head, single, dull eye widening at the sight of her. “Miss Chein,” he says, in a near whisper, and looks past her to the rest of them. His lips mouth the curve of their names, and his hand grips the front of his damp coat, near his stomach. Throat convulsing as he swallows, he picks up his hat again. “I – this is – How is this possible?“

The barn doors slam open, and the sudden noise echoes throughout the barn that seems oh, so big. Darzi sloshes through the mud, heedless of the trail it leaves on his shoes and pants, and hurries towards the small crowd around the Inspector. Tennegan lags behind, sodden and grimacing at the squelches his footsteps make.

“What happened, Inspector?” Bailey says, in the halting tension molded by Darzi’s stiff shoulders, by everyone’s leaning forward, eager for any news.

“There’s – something. In Goldwalk, the northwestern quarter,” Jallaford says, fingers fiddling with the brim of his hat before linking together underneath his chin. “There were things that I had never seen before in my life. White. And red. Mechanical, I assume from how I saw them move, how I saw them coordinate with each other. I had to let the Precinct know. Where is – where might I be able to contact them?”

Baliey’s hand tightens on her shawl, beside her, Shasberg grimaces, running a hand across the top of his head with a muttered, “Oh, boy.”

The Inspector doesn’t miss their careful avoidance of his eye, and looks down. “I am elsewhere, I take it. The Country?”

“We believe so,” Tennegan says, his sonorous voice wavering just a bit. “Could you tell us what happened to you, after you saw those things? Did see four people?”

“Grant Kendrell, Sybil Reisz, Asher Kendrell and the elusive Royce Bracket,” Jallaford lists, dryly, and closes his eyes to recall that night. “I never imagined or predicted that such a group would come together and ambush me. There was a sword, with a single red circle in the center, like an eye. And what looked like circuits underneath its face. After seeing it, I can remember no more, just a flash of light. And a feeling of being sucked in. I don’t even remember if the four had anything to say to me.”

Bailey nods, about to offer the slight consolation that they all couldn’t remember much beyond what had already been said, before Niola frowns and says, “But why were you in that area? The Administration had closed it down for renovations and repairs the last time I remember being – out there.”

“It was very unusual – you see the last time a portion of a district was closed off entirely, it was running again in nearly less than a week. Not this one. Besides,” his eye glitters with something like pride for a moment before fading again, “I had a _hunch_.”

Niola nods in understanding. Oh, Bailey knows all about the Inspector’s hunches. Forecasting. Of the professions in the Precincts, only a slight percentage of applicants had the potential for the job. And only a handful out of that shallow pool had the clarity of Jallaford’s ‘hunches.’

“Is there anything new in Cloudbank?” Farrah asks, sitting with her arms around her knees.

“When isn’t there anything new? But there’s a new Chair at the OVC, Ms. Platt stepped down because of personal reasons – her own words. And she’s fallen off the radar soon afterwards. As if she disappeared. The Precinct was supposed to be working on finding out what happened, but –“ Here, Jallaford shrugs, and Darzi makes some noise, like a stifled whimper. “I can’t tell you all what the result of that investigation would be.”

“On a happier note, the whole city’s been abuzz about Red’s ‘comeback,’ the OVC described it – yes, the singer Red. She’s scheduled to perform a couple of days from now, at the Empty Set.”

“Good for her,” Farrah says. “She’s very good, I would like to attend that concert, if I wasn’t here.”

Bailey winces at yet another reminder, and almost wants to press the Inspector’s memories for everything about her city. With each bit of news he passes on, she aches for her home – the one just by the Archives, for easy access, instead of this empty copy the Country had provided for her. Judging from the wistful looks she can gather from Niola and Farrah and even Shasberg’s faces, she’s not the only one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of my apologies for this really, really long absence! Lost some drive with this story, but am determined to see it to the end! Hopefully the next chapter won't take me as long, because there's just a few more to go!


End file.
